


What Baking Can Do

by Riddlebird-puff (hobbitpuff)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bad Pie Riddles, Kid Fic, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Oswald Chunky Kid, Oswald is Older than Edward, Pie Reading, This is the Sweetest thing I have ever written, pie porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitpuff/pseuds/Riddlebird-puff
Summary: The three loves of Oswald’s life as told by the baking of three pies.Nygmobblepot is the main ingredient of this fic. :)





	What Baking Can Do

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in a Gotham AU. When Edward saved Oswald in the woods, Oswald was already a big kingpin gangster of the underworld. And his mother had already been killed. After healing from his injuries he left. Edward was arrested for Kristen’s murder. Oswald used his connections to get him out and hired him as a business advisor. Oswald is not mayor in this fic.
> 
> (This backstory isn’t necessary to the plot but will clear up any confusion you might have regarding timelines.)
> 
> Hopefully it isn’t too ooc.

What Baking Can Do (Prologue)  
12 years old  
Pecan Cheesecake Pie

Oswald finally came out of his room when he became too hungry. He had skipped lunch, not by choice. He had skipped dinner, pretending to have an upset tummy. And he had pretended to be asleep when his mother opened his door and begged him to come eat something.

He had fallen asleep crying and swearing to himself to never eat again.

But the hunger ate at him and he was weak. He hated his weakness. He would just sneak a few crackers. Just enough to quiet his tummy. And no more. No one would know. It would be as if he never broke his promise.

The light was on in the tiny kitchen and he almost turned around. But his heart was as hungry for his mother as his tummy was hungry for food. He moved forward and stopped.

He watched his mother at the counter mixing something in a bowl. Something sweet by the smell of brown sugar and syrup. He could also smell vanilla. And warm graham crackers in the oven.

She wiped her forehead and left a streak of flour.

His tummy rumbled.

“You can come in, Ozzie. I will not force you to eat. I am only making a small snack for myself.” 

Oswald rolled his eyes. He knew what she was trying to do, it wouldn’t work. But he entered anyway. He was only curious about what the smells were making. He would see what his mother was baking, grab his tasteless crackers and retreat back to his room.

There was a pie crust fresh from the oven on the cutting board and beside it a bowl of sugar glazed pecans. His fingers reached for the bowl before his brain could stop them. 

He took one and plopped it into his mouth. After nearly a day of no food the taste was almost too much. He let it sit on his tongue, closed his eyes, and savored taste of the sugar melting in his mouth. Then he sucked on the pecan until all the sugar had dissolved. And only then did he bit into the soft nut and swallow it.

Oswald moaned in delight. 

He opened his eyes and reached out for the pie crust, only meaning to break off a small piece, a crumb. And was smacked on the back of the hand with a wooden spoon.

“These things are for the baking, Ozzie. I may allow you a slice if you are good boy and not steal any more goodies. Remember the Hansel and the Gretel. You do not want to end up in pie yourself.”

“Yes, mother.” He sighed. “I only came out for some crackers.” Tasteless. Lifeless. Colorless. Crackers. “And water.” To wash them down.

“My poor little Ozzie.” She patted his head. “Still have headache in the tummy? While you are in the fridge bring your mother the cream cheese.”

“Yes, mother.” He walked toward the refrigerator. 

Pecans. Cream cheese. Pie crust. She wasn’t just baking any pie. She was baking his favorite. But he would be strong. He had to be.

He grabbed the soft brick of cream cheese and shut the door. He walked back to his mother and tried to hand her the bar. 

“Why don’t you start mixing the cheesecake, Ozzie dear. I know that is your favorite part.”

“I do not feel good, Mama.”

“Your mother knows. Heard your crying behind the door. Do you want to tell your mother what has you so upset, my little Ozzie?”

Hardly little. He was short but round.

“Nothing.” He mumbled.

“Start mixing the cheesecake, Ozzie. You will begin to feel better. You will see. Please?”

“Alright.” He sighed. 

Oswald unwrapped the cream cheese and tossed it in the waiting bowl. He cracked the first egg against the rim of the bowl and let the contents pour out. He repeated the action with three more eggs. He added the heavy cream. He then dumped the brown sugar and flour that his mother had already measured out.

He took the hand mixer and placed the whisk in the bowl and twisted the handle. His mother did not believe in the use of electronic mixers. She could be incredible old fashioned. But he had to admit there was something intimate about only using the power of his own hands to mix the ingredients together.

“Do you know what the best thing about baking is, Ozzie? Every time you bake something you leave a piece of yourself behind. Tell the pie what upsets you. Blend your tears into the mixture. Bake it in the oven and the tears disappear, only leaving deliciousness behind.” 

Oswald sniffled. “They make fun of me. My weight. My clothes. My teeth. Everything. The way I walk. They call me a penguin.”

The other kids made fun of him every day. But today had been the worst. The boy he had thought was becoming his only friend, a boy he had thought he liked, had taken his lunch in front of the whole lunchroom and laughed at him.

But he could not tell his mother about that.

“Why should you care what they think of you, Ozzie? You are more than they will ever be. You are meant for greatness.” His mother held his face in her hands and forced him to look at her. 

“Take their words and make them your strength.”

“It… hurts.”

“Yes, it does.” She nodded. “Do you not think the pie feels pain when it is baked? Of course. But when it is finished baking it is a thing of beauty. You are in pain right now, Ozzie. But you are still baking. And when you are done you will be as beautiful as this pie.”

“What if I’m a lemon pie?” It was his least favorite pie. 

“Then you will be the most delicious lemon pie ever created, my little Ozzie.” She whispered. “Do you want to know a secret? Lemon is my most favorite pie of all.” She flicked his nose. “But you not a lemon pie. You are like this Pecan Cheesecake Pie we make.” 

“Fat and full of calories?” He wiped his nose. 

“No, silly boy. Hard on the outside, but soft and gooey inside. A little sour and a little nutty. And sweet. I know pies, my little Ozzie. And you good pie.” She tickled his tummy. “You will be very rich and flavorful.” She kissed him on the head.

“Now let’s finish this pie.”

 

It Only Takes a Taste  
32 years old  
Apple Cinnamon Pie

Oswald could not find Edward. But according to Gabe, his newest advisor had not left the mansion. He hoped the curious man had not found trouble.

The former GCPD forensic scientist held no loyalty for his former colleagues, not after they had sentenced him to the hellhole known as Arkham, but even so Oswald had tried to keep him away from the Penguin’s more illegal businesses.

Oswald was still trying to decide if he trusted the earnest younger man. He was still not sure what he thought of this brilliant man who could be so naive despite having blood on his hands.

There was an innocence to Edward Nygma that would not last long in this business. And there was a part of Oswald that would regret snuffing that out. 

He went to the kitchen merely to ask Olga if she had seen their odd new guest. But he did not find Olga. He had finally found his missing advisor. 

Edward had his glasses on the top of his head, holding a book close to his eyes. The man looked so serious that Oswald almost laughed at him. Then he noticed the book in Edward’s hands. And recognized its pink cover.

Oswald stalked towards his rude houseguest and grabbed the book from his hands. “Where did you get this?” He raised the book.

Edward flinched.

“I… was only looking for something to read. And I knew you had books in your bedroom, you said I could borrow any. I didn’t think you would mind.” Edward lowered his glasses and straightened them. “I’m sorry, Mr. Oswald. Please don’t send me away.”

Edward was frightened of him, Oswald realized. He lowered the book. Had he become so much of a monster that he threatened his own houseguests? His mother would be ashamed of him. 

“No, Edward. It is I that owes you an apology. It is only that this is my mother’s recipe book.” 

“I know, she signed her name on the inside flap.”

“And so, as you can imagine, it has great sentimental value to me.”

Oswald had taken the book from his mother’s apartment after the funeral and hidden it away without once looking at it.

“Is this you?”

He looked up at Edward who held a piece of paper that had fallen out of the book. Edward flipped it over so Oswald could see the photo.

The little blonde fat boy in the picture was eating a piece of pie. Strawberries smeared around his mouth.

Oswald wanted to lie to Edward. But he could not deny that boy he used to be. 

He nodded unable to speak. He waited for the jokes, disgust disguised as laughter.

“You were cute.” Edward giggled. “Blonde?”

“You did not think this hair color was natural, did you?”

“Are you still blonde, then?” Edward looked at Oswald over the photo.

“Genetically speaking, yes.” 

Edward tilted his head as though trying to imagine Oswald with blonde hair. Then he nodded, smiled.

“I like it better black. It suits you.” 

“You do?” 

“You may have been born with blonde hair.” Edward shrugged. “But it is not you.” He smiled. 

“And black brings out the color of your eyes.” 

His mother had always complained about his hair and his makeup. Said he was hiding his “natural beauty”, as though he had any. But Oswald had felt that this look he had adopted was him in a way the boy in the picture never had been.

And Ed Nygma seemed to understand.

Oswald handed his mother’s book back to him.

“Do you bake?” Oswald had already sampled the man’s cooking when he had stayed with him in his apartment and he was a good cook.

“Not really.” Edward took the book and shrugged. “But I can cook, how much different could it be?” 

Oswald looked around at the mess Edward had already created and chuckled. “My mother used to say cooking came from the brain, but baking from the heart.” 

“It is only your mother’s writing is difficult to decipher.” He opened the book to the recipe he had been working on and handed it back to Oswald.

Oswald looked down and saw Edward had been attempting to bake his mother’s Apple Cinnamon Pie. He smiled. 

‘Now this pie, Ozzie. This pie makes good lover. Very good in bed.’

She had told him once and then proceeded to lecture him about finding a “good girl” and not one of the “harlots” from the club. Oswald often wondered what she would have said if he had told her he was gay but he had never been brave enough.

Oswald looked in the bowl in front of Edward. It would appear he had started with the ingredients for the crust but something had apparently gone wrong for the texture was more cake than pie crust.

“Did you melt the butter before putting it in?” He asked Edward, already suspecting the answer.

“Yes. I melt the butter when I bake cookies, it makes it easier to mix. I thought it would be the same here.”

Oswald sighed. “First lesson, you cannot take shortcuts when baking a pie.” He thought about dumping the mixture and starting again. But his mother had believed in working through mistakes. “Hand me the flour.”

He took the flour bag from Edward and just kept dumping it in until the mixture would be workable. It was not a perfect fix but it would do.

Oswald handed Edward the rolling pin. “You knead, I’ll start on the filling.”

He began peeling and coring the apples.

Oswald had not baked since he was a boy with his mother. And baking with someone again was a little nice. Too nice.

Meanwhile Edward had dumped the dough on the counter and was attempting to use the rolling pin but kept getting the sticky dough stuck to the wood. 

It was amusing how fastidious this man who had killed with his hands seemed to be about getting any of the dough on him.

Oswald came over to him and took the rolling pin, put it aside. “Second lesson, you cannot be afraid to get messy.” He sprinkled more flour to the blob of dough and kneaded it with his hands. “Baking pies is messy, and if it’s not you’re doing something wrong.” 

He rolled the dough into shape with the rolling pin and folded it into the waiting pie pan. He then quickly crimped the edges with his forefinger and thumb. 

“I have skin but I am not a person. I can be peeled but I’m not a potato. I’m a fruit but I am not an orange. I grow on trees but I’m not a banana. I’m usually red or green but I’m not a grape. What do I have behind my back?”

Oswald saw that Edward hid something behind his back. “Apple. You have an apple.” He was going easy on him.

“Correct!” Edward bit into the apple in his hand. Oswald noticed some juice on the corner of his mouth. “Wanna a bite?” He turned it bite side to Oswald.

Oswald wondered if Edward knew his lips were as tempting as the offered apple, more so. He was reminded that by legend Eve and Adam had fallen for a taste of the forbidden fruit as well.

He took a bite of the offered fruit from Edward’s hand. He was sure he had never tasted a more delicious apple. This was surely a taste worthy of being kicked out of heaven for.   
Edward watched Oswald as he bit into the apple and chewed. His eyes blown in surprise, his mouth hung slightly open, and his tongue flicked out to wipe the juice at the corner of his mouth. His eyes focused on Oswald’s mouth.

He almost believed Edward was going to kiss him. But then Oswald swallowed the apple piece and the spell was broken.

Oswald had never had much experience in these sorts of things. And Ed Nygma was a difficult man to read. He must have misread the younger man’s intentions. 

He tried to tell himself what he was feeling was relief. 

Edward stepped back.

“I suppose we’ve spoiled this one for the pie.” Edward tossed the bitten apple in the trash. 

“Lesson three, do not eat all the ingredients before you put them in the pie.” Oswald picked up another apple. “This is why you should always put out more than the pie calls for.” He resumed peeling the remaining apples, then coring them. “I will finish the filing. You can start mixing the topping together.”

He figured it was an easy enough job that even Edward should be able to handle it alone. His mother had had him mix toppings as soon as he was old enough to hold a spoon.

Oswald grabbed a knife and began to cut the apples into even slices. He had missed this. Using a knife to create instead of destroy. He started humming without realizing it, until Edward began to softly sing along with the tune. 

‘I got rhythm, I got music, I got my gal. Who could ask for anything more. I’ve got daisies in green pastures. I’ve got my gal. Who could ask for anything more.’

His mother had sung old show tunes while she baked but that one had always been his favorite as a young boy. He felt tears sting his eyes with the nostalgia. But it was not sadness he felt. 

Oswald blended the sugar and cinnamon into melted butter and stirred it until it became a sugary syrup. He added some flour to thicken it. Then he started placing the slices of apples carefully inside the crust before pouring the syrup over them. 

He turned around to see how Edward was faring with the topping. And laughed.

Edward was mixing the ingredients while dancing and singing.

‘You can dance. You can jive. Having the time of your life. Ooh, see that girl. Watch that scene. Dig in the dancing dancing queen.’

He stopped at the sound of Oswald’s laughter, looking like a deer in headlights.

“Disco, Edward? Perhaps we can get a disco ball for your room.” 

“Not disco. Just ABBA.” Edward turned red. “My grandmother used to play them for me when… things got bad.”

“Relax, Edward. I am only teasing you.” 

Ed Nygma rarely mentioned family, or his life prior to meeting Oswald. The mention of a grandmother intrigued him. As did the suggestion that the younger man had had a less than happy childhood, though he had already guessed that. However, Oswald knew Edward enough not to ask any questions.

“I think it’s done.” Edward pushed his glasses up, leaving a streak of cinnamon on his cheek.   
“Is it supposed to be so crumbly?”

“It’s perfect. Go ahead and dump it over the filing.”

“I don’t know… What if I mess it up some”-

“Haven’t you ever heard the saying, easy as pie?”

“That’s actually not true, you know.” Edward spooned the mixture over the filling. “The idiom is actually, easy as eating pie. But everyone always gets it wrong.” 

“My mother always said, no two pies are ever exactly the same.” Oswald took the pie from Edward and placed it in the preheated oven. “Pies have individuality, like people. She said you could tell everything you wanted to know about a person from their favorite pie.”

Oswald shut the oven door. 

“Now what?” Edward asked.

“Now we wait.”

The kitchen was suddenly quiet.

“What would your mother say this pie says about me?”

“Apples represent knowledge, which I am sure you know. Apple pies are also very traditional”-

“Boring.” Edward laughed.

“Maybe to some. Not to me.” Oswald shrugged. “Apple pies are traditional. They are Romantics in the classical sense. They are ruled by the head, not the heart. But apples also represent temptation and sin. Likewise, apple pies can also be impulsive.” Oswald laughed. “My mother also said they made the best lovers. But you should never give your heart to one.”

“She could tell all that from a pie?” 

Oswald could hear the doubt in Edward’s voice.

“My mother did not read horoscopes or tea leaves. She read pies.” Oswald shrugged. “It worked for her.”

“What about you?” Edward sat on the counter. “What’s your pie?”

“When I was a boy, pecan pie.” Oswald started putting the used dishes in the sink and turned on the water. “Now it’s cherry.”

“Your pie can change like that?” Edward sounded interested.

“Our tastes can evolve with our experiences.” Oswald began washing the dishes. “Before my mother met my father her favorite pie had been banana cream. After she had me it became lemon. But some never change. My father’s favorite pie was peach until the day he died.” 

“Fascinating.” Edward hopped off the counter and helped dry the dishes. “And everyone has a pie?”

“In theory. Not everyone likes pie, of course. But my mother always told me to avoid those people.” Oswald chuckled. “To her way of thinking, anyone who did not like pie was soulless.”

“Pietheist.” Edward giggled. “Sorry, Mr Oswald.”

“It is alright. I know what you must be thinking. My mother could be quite fanciful. But this is Gotham after all. Surely you have heard stranger things than a pie reader.” He handed Edward a bowl to dry. “She brought a little color and taste to this city. And without her, Gotham is a darker place.”

“Have you given any thought about opening a pie shop?”

Oswald chuckled. “I am not sure even Gotham is ready for a pie shop called Penguin’s Pies or perhaps Cobblepot Pies.” 

“I believe you underestimate the naivety of the fine citizens of this fair city.” Edward giggled. “But I was thinking something like Gertrud’s Pies, in honor of your mother.”

Gertrud’s Pies. Oswald had to admit he liked the idea. But it would need to be kept completely separate from his less-than-legal endeavors, otherwise it would hardly be an honor to his mother’s memory.

“I like it. I knew I hired you for a reason, Ed Nygma.” Oswald handed him a spoon. “Are you perhaps thinking about running the shop yourself for the Penguin?”

“I am not sure that would be a good idea.” Edward stammered. “Not after the pie disaster you averted today.”

“Perhaps you are correct. It will be difficult enough to obtain insurance on the shop.” Oswald laughed to show he had not been serious. “Maybe you can write riddles for each pie instead.” 

“I would be honored to, Mr Oswald.” Edward grinned. “Actually I have already been thinking of a few.”

Oswald continued washing the dishes while Edward dried them and told pie related riddles. One of which was so bad Oswald and Edward laughed so hard that Gabe came into the kitchen to make sure his boss was alright before being kicked out by Oswald.

“What sort of pie do you think Gabe is?” Edward asked when Gabe left.

“Something bloody and violent no doubt. And meaty.” Oswald chuckled. He handed Edward the last knife and turned off the water. “Blood Pudding Pie made from the blood of baby animals.”

Edward giggled. “Meathead Pie.” 

Oswald groaned at the bad joke. But laughed. 

The buzzer went off. The pie was done.

Oswald was a little surprised at how quickly the time had gone with Edward. At how easy and comfortable the younger man’s companionship was. And how much fun he had had in the last couple of hours. 

He grabbed the heavy washcloth and removed the hot pie from the oven. Oswald turned to Edward holding the pie up. 

“Now for the best part.” 

They did not even bother with plates. Oswald just grabbed two clean forks and handed one to Edward. 

“You take the honors of first taste, Edward.”

Oswald watched Edward take his first bite. He cautiously placed the fork in his mouth. Then his eyes widened behind his glasses in surprise. 

“It’s delicious.” Edward declared.

“I doubt that. You should have tasted my mother’s pie.” 

Oswald dug his own piece. And put it between his lips. He bit down. And froze. The taste exploded in his mouth and tears formed in his eyes.

‘It only takes a taste, my little Ozzie. You will recognize the one that is meant for you with just one taste.’

Oswald looked up at Edward in shock. And he knew.

 

Everything Changes (Epilogue)  
41 years old  
Chocolate Pie with Whipped Cream and Strawberries 

Oswald picked up Martin and put him on the counter. He handed the boy the bowl that he had already dumped the chocolate mixture into. The boy grasped the whisk and began to stir. 

He knew as soon as he turned his back Martin would give the whisk a lick, or two. But it was alright. The boy deserved a stolen taste of chocolate every once in awhile.

Oswald had never expected to become a father, had never wanted to be a father. And yet here he was. 

He poured the heavy cream in the industrial mixing bowl. Added some sugar and a dash of vanilla. And flipped the switch to whip the ingredients into a fluffy whipped cream.

His mother may not have believed in electronic mixers but the arthritis in his hands have made baking more difficult for him the older he gets. 

Oswald turned off the machine and took the bowl over to Martin. He helped the boy pour the filling over the crust. After it was completely filled, he started spooning the whipped cream to top the pie.

Martin saw him first, Oswald noticed.

Edward wrapped his arms around Oswald from behind and kissed the sensitive spot below his ear. “What would Gotham think if they saw the fearsome Penguin baking a pie?”

“The GCPD would probably test the pie for poisons.” Oswald chuckled. “And the rest of the Rogue Gallery would probably decide to have a pie party that would no doubt end in a very messy food fight.”

Edward’s hands lingered on Oswald’s doughy waist. There was a time that Oswald would have stepped away. But with age he had stopped worrying about his weight. And Edward seemed not to mind his growing waistline.

Edward stood next to Martin and placed his old bowler hat on the boy.

“I have a new riddle for you, Martin.” 

The boy nodded eagerly.

“What lies in bed, and stands in bed, first white than red. The plumper it gets, the better the old man likes it?” He winked at Oswald.

“Edward!” 

But the boy had already grabbed a strawberry waiting to be placed on the pie and shown it to Edward as answer.

“Correct! You are a very smart boy, Martin.” 

Edward took another strawberry and dipped it into the whipped cream topping. Martin copied him. 

“You should stop teaching the boy your bad habits.”

“Who do you think taught me them?” Edward leaned forward and offered Oswald the dipped strawberry. “Are you suggesting you don’t enjoy a naughty lick of whipped cream every once in awhile?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

That was one time. Maybe twice. It was not as though he had kept count.

Oswald opened his mouth expecting Edward to feed him the strawberry but instead the rogue used the tip to smear whipped cream on his nose. 

Martin laughed silently. Oswald brought his hand up to wipe off his nose but Edward stopped him. And licked the whipped cream from it instead. Martin stuck his finger in his mouth and gagged. 

Edward bit into the strawberry and gave Oswald a kiss. Oswald pushed him away playfully.

“Enough fooling around, let us finish this pie so we can eat it.” 

Oswald placed the remaining strawberries around the top of the pie. Edward added the slices of apple. And Martin sprinkled the chocolate confetti.

The pie was far from perfect. But it was Oswald’s. And it tasted like home.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone has paid attention to my fics (and their titles especially) you may have noticed a trend of musical theatre influences. This fic was heavily inspired by the musical Waitress, which I have recently very much fallen in love with.
> 
> I took a few baking liberties in this for the sake of pacing. I know the way Oswald bakes isn’t always accurate. But I had to make the choice to sacrifice accuracy for the story I wanted to tell. So I did.
> 
> In some ways this is the most personal thing I’ve ever written.
> 
> Thank you for reading. This turned out a lot long than I meant it to.
> 
> PS - You cannot convince me that Edward would not absolutely love ABBA.
> 
> And. Yes. Oswald and Edward definitely had sex with whipped cream. ;)
> 
> Apologies for any formatting issues. The site is still giving me issues. And I think I caught everything. But I know I probably missed something.


End file.
